


but you're still on my lonely mind

by lady_blackwell



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, everyone can see it, in which making out with the subject of your documentary series is a terrible idea, mostly just angst, this is the black tapes so there's no such thing as a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 16:36:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12016746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_blackwell/pseuds/lady_blackwell
Summary: There are certain things Alex Reagan can't tell her listeners.Takes place during/after the events of Axis Mundi.





	but you're still on my lonely mind

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to M and A, who dragged me into this fandom and who have supported me as I scream about Alex and Strand and the Jellyfish of Sexual Tension that constantly swims next to them.

There’s certain things Alex Reagan keeps from her listeners. 

 

She knows it’s horrifically unfair after everything she’s demanded from people - Jessica, Cheryl, Charlie, Amalia, Nick,  _ Strand _ \- for the show, for herself, for trying to stop the end of the world, but some things she absolutely cannot make public. If only for her own self-preservation.

 

“It was a long night,” she tells the listeners, “We stayed up talking.” And it’s true; they did stay up talking. They did laugh about their early cases, laughed so hard that the wine they were drinking sloshed over her hand. She didn’t tell the viewers that she had giggled and licked her fingers impulsively, because that’s what she does, and tries not to notice how Strand’s eyes had darkened slightly when she sucked the tip of her finger into her mouth. She addressed it by grabbing the bottle and pouring them more, pouting when the last drops land in his glass instead of hers. He responded by simply grabbing another bottle - it seemed like she wasn’t the only one relying more and more on drinking to calm night terrors - and pour her a fresh glass after popping the cork.

 

And they did have their somber moments, like she says when recording the podcast later; Alex commiserated over the loss of Maggie Franks and Keith Dabic. Strand himself had sighed over the loss of Coralee, of Charlie, of his parents, and it seemed only natural to Alex to reach out and lightly stroke his arm, bare up to his elbow where he had rolled up his sleeves. She definitely doesn’t say that Strand had, much to her surprise, responded by shifting his hand and threading his fingers together with her own. She doesn’t say how long they had sat like that, sipping wine and holding hands.

 

But she absolutely cannot tell the listeners, or her executive producers, or Nic especially, that she had tried to get off the couch to grab something, she can’t even remember what, and that Strand had tightened his grip on her hand and caused her to fall back onto the couch.

 

Okay, well, more accurately, half on the couch, half in his lap.

 

And she does not tell them that she had responded to that by tipping her chin up and pressing her mouth to his. She does not tell them that Strand had responded so  _ incredibly _ eagerly, his facial hair tickling her upper lip and chin as he shoved his tongue between her lips and dragged her fully into his lap. She doesn’t tell them how amazing it felt to run her fingers through his hair and across his back and shoulders. She doesn’t say how he had squeezed her ass roughly when she ground into his lap and pulled away from the kiss, shifting his lips to her neck instead and causing her to moan.

 

She doesn’t describe how she had relished the sensation, and how in response to him continuing his journey down her neck and towards his chest she had shifted her hands and tried to unbutton her shirt, eventually giving up and just ripping it apart. She doesn’t mentioned that the sound of the buttons clattering across the floor had caused the mood to shift, had caused Strand to freeze and jump when he realized exactly  _ what  _ they were about to do.

 

“Alex,” he said, and it doesn’t register, not at first, she had grasped his hands and tried to shift them from her ass and her hip to her breasts because she needed them, she  _ needed _ them there, but he had resisted.

 

“Alex,” he said again, clearer this time, and she snapped back into herself. She had taken in the scenery: his hair was an absolute mess and his glasses were askew, the buttons at the top of her flannel shirt had been ripped off and her black bra was exposed. The tops of her breasts were covered with red marks from where his beard had scratched her skin, and the burning sensation on her neck told her that she’d have a hickey there come morning.

They’re both panting for breath. Alex could feel Strand’s erection through her pants.

 

“I…,” she said, not knowing what to say, because what  _ do  _ you say when you’ve come thisclose to drunkenly fucking the subject of your documentary series on his couch?

 

“This…,” Strand - Richard, she should probably think of him as Richard now that she knows what how it feels to make him moan - responded haltingly, “We…”

 

“Shouldn’t,” she replied decisively, “We shouldn’t. It’s been a long day, you’ve had a big shock.”

 

“It wouldn’t be ethical,” Str-Richard said, “It would cause too many problems in our professional working relationship.”

 

“Yes. Right,” she muttered, shifting her gaze away from his and crawling off his lap.

 

She doesn’t say how he had generously offered her his guest bedroom, noting the late hour and their drinking, and she doesn’t say that she had refused him and insisted on driving home. She doesn’t tell anyone about how she had allowed a tear, or two, to slip out of her eyes and down her cheeks on the drive home. She doesn’t mention her sleep journal that night, because, well, she didn’t sleep at all.

 

(She doesn’t say how things between them have been awkward, and tense, and completely hellish in the aftermath.)


End file.
